Palaces of words.

 

We search for truth in thought, build palaces of words and pyramids of philosophy,  but how often do these palaces become crystal unclear prisons and our pyramids lead us to be encapsulated in our own sarcophagus.

 

How often is all this philosophising an exercise in futility, the seeds of idealistic theorising sown on council estate pavements that only seem to hold the propensity to cultivate flowering blossoms of pit bull shit and empty coke cans.

 

Meandering myriads of cognitive activity cascading to fruition in what we call “A truth”.  The empirical handicapping the spiritual and the scientific encumbering the mysticism in us all. 

 

Embers of the divine fall dim awaiting a rekindling tinder from another soul as we step over homeless on the way to work, sipping over priced vanilla scented fair trade coffee feeling like “we do our bit”. 

 

The pope blames the devil as the devil sits and laughs. The politicians that win blame the politicians that lose and the losers blame the winners.  But I see no losers when they are all millionaires.

 

The man on the street feels the brunt of the cuts and while it’s raining stones on him from above they tell him he has a choice!  A vote!  Cunt A, B or C?  Pick a Cunt isn’t really a choice by my reckoning.

 

Bailiffs and undertakers are struggling to keep up with the workload, too busy to notice to what degree the former feeds the later work.  And old people sit lonely waiting to die, with brittle cold fingers at Christmas, too skint to put the fire on.

 

A little Childs voice gets drowned out somewhere in us all. As we are seduced by the emperors grand flowing robes of commercialism.  We keep up with the Jones’ and become as miserable as the Jones’ are…… Really…. Inside.

 

And the little boy keeps shouting, pointing and shouting, he’s speaking the truth but the truth is too simple, not academic, intellectual or political enough.  It is dismissed as nonsense by the great adult minds that we are.

 

But if you listen……

 

Very, very carefully on a quiet night when the moon is full and the TV is broken.  You may just hear a tiny child’s voice whispering through the cracks in your heart.

 

“We just need to love each other a little more” 

 

 

 

Ged Thompson/ Liverpool Poet and Writer 18/07/14